


The Oldest Punks in Town

by pinkbubblesgo (lavatorylovemachine)



Series: Jukebox Stories [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 2020s, England (Country), Far-right, Gen, Labour party, Mild Language, Musicians, Politics, Punk Rock, UKIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13113687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavatorylovemachine/pseuds/pinkbubblesgo
Summary: UKIP wins.





	The Oldest Punks in Town

The old man swallowed the cold beer and looked up at the TV once more: 450 seats for UKIP against 188 for Labour. He stared down at his glass, his hands trembling from the first stages of Parkinson's disease. The rumors from the other tables and the cigarettes' smoke rose up into the warm air.

"I still don't believe it," he said to the other old man, his friend, who was slightly younger and much thinner than him.

A part of the first old man, his inner 21-year-old self, still hoped Theo would burst into the bar, in regular clothes, and greeted them both before sharing some beers. _Did you really think that I would do such a thing?_ he would have said, and the trio would have been complete again.

Meanwhile, the thinner man recalled the blue tie. The change had begun with the introduction of the tie in their meetings, that Dolce & Gabanna clothing piece Theo started wearing some ten years before. Ayn Rand, he had raved about Ayn Rand that entire night. Then it came Nigel Farage, Lauren Southern... The same old story of political traitors.

"Labour fucked it up again," the second old man commented.

His friend shook his head. "I expect nothing from them anymore, mate," he took a slug of beer, elbows on the table. "But to have Theo into this..." He sighed and shook his head again.

The second old man coughed from the cold drink and glanced at the TV screen for a moment. He looked dejected. "We should have never come here."

"We needed beers for this."

 _We have the final results_ , the TV journalist announced. The bar fell quiet, everyone's eyes on the woman. _With a clear majority going to the UK Independence Party, Theodore Radcliffe will be Britain's next Prime Minister._

The men started groaning and shaking their heads. Some stood up and left the bar.

_... A rotund victory for UKIP, a party that was declared politically dead by its adversaries ten years ago._

"Let's order another one," the first old man walked towards the bartender and did as he had said. While he waited, he squinted at the bar's large windows and watched the kids, as he called them, marching again under the red, white and blue and the chanting of "Britain for the British". If they noticed, for a split second, the name of the bar they were in, everyone else there would be in great danger. Had he been a person of faith, the first old man would have prayed.

With two beers in his hands, he found that everyone else was also watching the march in silence.

_... We have UKIP's London representative on the phone now..._

By the time the interview had ended, the UKIP youth have moved on. The vulgar murmurs went louder than the journalist's voice, joined by chairs being dragged and cash falling over the tables. In a matter of minutes the bar had only the two old men and one of the bartenders left.

"Let's get out of here," the first old man said.

"Hang on…" the second old man uttered, watching the television in now low volume.

His friend got up and got money out of his wallet to pay for their beers.

"What's wrong with your friend?" The bartender asked. He was in his early twenties.

"Nothing, it's just… we used to be friends with Theo-- I mean, Radcliffe."

The bartender's face tensed, his big black eyes squinting slightly. "You're still friends?"

"No, of course not! Do we look like fucking Tories?" The old man laughed and the young one relaxed. "No, we know him through..." he scratched his grey-haired head. "Nevermind, you won't believe us."

"I still don't believe UKIP has won, but try me."

"We used to have a punk band together, the three of us. Public Indecency, it was called."

The bartender's eyebrows went up in excitement as he smiled. "Public Indecency? The ones who released _Working Class Noise_ in '77?"

"Exactly."

"I love them!"

The old man frowned. "We never made it to the mainstream."

The bartender smiled. "It's all on YouTube." He stared at the first old man while still cleaning the glasses. "You're Colin Flanagan."

"Indeed. And that over there is Mark-"

"Smith. Vocals."

Colin smiled. "You have a good memory."

"It runs in the family," the young man smiled back. "Wasn't the last member Maurice?"

"He changed his name pretty soon. Was embarrassed by it. Good old Theo..."

The bartender put the money on the box, then took out his phone and started pressing and swiping the screen. "You mean to tell me…" he showed a photo to the old man, "Radcliffe's here in this photo?"

He was pointing at the tallest man at the right of the black and white photo. The three wore torn jeans and had short, spiky hair.

"Yes, that's him," the man zoomed in with his too-big-for-phones fingers.

"Blimey, he was thin at some point!"

"He was..."

Colin kept staring at the photo. Mark hadn't changed much but him... He now shaved his head and had lost the good looks that made him a lady magnet at the time. So long ago... "That's after our first show in Birmingham," he said.

"I wish I could have seen your shows... But I was born in '97."

"Huh. So was my son."

They exchanged heartfelt looks. Mark had stood up to draw the curtains into the light again.

After the bartender was done cleaning up, the man stared at him with pity.

"What are you going to do now, boy?" He said, and the boy didn't need further explanation. He smiled bittersweetly.

"Maybe I'll leave the country, I don't know… My fiancé wants to stay."

"Huh... That's exactly what they want, isn't it? For anyone who isn't a fucking pure-blooded British to leave."

The young man chuckled. "Indeed, they do. But I want to be safe, for the most part."

The old man nodded. "That's alright, you're still young... My son fled to Switzerland years ago."

The bartender had finished cleaning the glasses and saving the money for the day. "Do you live alone now?" he asked.

"Yes… I'm divorced, have the house all by myself."

Mark stood up, coughing. He cleared his throat.

"Let's go, Colin", he said, gesturing at his friend, who smiled apologetically at the bartender.

"Take care, lad. And keep spreading the word on YouTube! We don't mind, really."

"He knows we're from Public Indecency?" Mark asked. He had approached the duo, hands in his pockets and showing his crooked teeth through his smile

"He's a fan," Colin said, as excited as he was when he met their first fans, forty years earlier.

"Are you, really?" Mark said.

"I found you online."

"Huh. Small world. Is all our stuff there?"

The bartender nodded. "Everywhere except on Spotify. Have you considered uploading there?"

Mark grunted. "I'm not much of an Internet person."

"I think I'll do it," Colin said. "Can't let our label get rich in on our behalf."

"Right, right," Mark said.

"Well, we better leave," Colin felt his jeans pockets. "Thanks for the talk, chap. What's your name?"

"Omar."

"Omar! So you own this place."

Omar smiled. "My father's named Omar too."

The two old men took a look around, as if it was the last time they were going to visit the bar, and headed towards the door.

"Are you two staying in the country?" Omar asked, unexpectedly.

Colin stopped and nodded. "You know the song. _England belongs to me_."

Omar smiled from the bar, remembering. "Cock Sparrer."

Mark and Colin waved goodbye and left the bar. They walked slowly, fitting their age, and Colin started whistling the song's chorus. Omar could see them through the glass windows, and suddenly they weren't old men anymore. They wore torn jackets and their hair was spiky again. Mark and Colin had become, in Omar's daydreaming, the youngest punks in town.


End file.
